by Gail Bridges
“I’m okay.” I clutched his hand. “Vane? Where are you?” I reached a hand toward him, hesitating. How could I reach for something I couldn’t see? What if I ran into something else, instead? Like his shirt. Or his crotch. I needn’t have worried. A second invisible hand—Vane’s, feeling so different from Josh’s, drier, bigger, meatier—took my left hand, and it was good.
It was very good.
“We’re not really invisible, you know,” said Vane softly, his voice hovering above my left shoulder, nearer than I’d expected. “Squint, Angie. Tilt your head. Try to cross your eyes a bit, you know, like those fool-the-eye posters. Maybe you can see us. A little.”
“Oh!” I said as Vane and Josh slid briefly into soft focus, then faded away again. I forced my eyes to cross and uncross, making them ache deep inside. It would give me headaches if I consciously tried to see them, if I attempted to bring them back and keep them there—better to let Vane and Josh fade away to nothingness, like the Tool was designed to do.
“We’re not really invisible, we’re…camouflaged.” Vane’s hand left mine and worked its way up my sleeve. “This isn’t magic. Not exactly.”
I turned my head, watching my sleeve wrinkle and shift at the unseen touch. I shivered.
“Magic! Camouflage! Whatever. I want to try it too!” said Josh, squeezing my hand.
Vane laughed. “After,” he said. His hand roamed across my shoulder, across my back. Invisible. “It’s her turn first.”
Josh kissed me on the neck, then his hand left mine. A second later an invisible hand crept up my stomach and cupped my breast, lifting it, making me suck in my breath. Josh’s hand?
Wasn’t it?
“Angie,” whispered Vane, pulling me close, “you can make this much more interesting, by not touching us.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see. Don’t feel for my ponytail. Don’t feel for those long fingers of Josh’s. Don’t feel our faces. Don’t even try. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said, liking the concept of much more interesting. “I won’t.”
“Trust me,” he said.
I felt them moving around on the bed.
“We’re putting on condoms,” said Vane. “Just so you know.”
My insides quivered.
Someone placed his warm hand on my butt. Josh? Vane? I shivered, losing track of whose hand was where. I gasped. I wasn’t so far gone yet that I couldn’t see the irony of it all. I’d been blinded. Me! The artist! Who spent her whole life looking at things. I am an intensely visual person, always orienting myself in terms of color and value and perspective. This ought to be freaking me out! Why wasn’t I having a heart attack? Why wasn’t I rolling up into a quivering ball? Amazingly, I seemed to be adjusting to this particular brand of sightlessness pretty darn well.
Of course I was. Two men at once. All for me. Who wouldn’t?
A silent message must have passed between Vane and Josh, for they abruptly fell silent. I heard their movements, heard their breathing, but neither of them spoke another word. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought I was alone in the room.
But I did know better.
The Invisible Men were playing with me. Oh, how they played!
They crawled around my kneeling form, around and around, tossing their shirts and pants and socks and underpants from the bed as they went—those I could see—until I lost any concept of who was where, who was touching me where. And then I felt their heavy, warm bodies crouching on either side of me, close, so close. I trembled as their hands roamed over me, alighting here, rubbing there, grazing, cupping, caressing. Their hands—four of them—never left me. I fought the urge to touch them.
Someone leaned in and kissed me. Vane! It was Vane! I knew it was! He felt different from Josh. His lips were softer, his kisses quicker. And as Vane kissed me, the buttons on my shirt starting falling open. Josh! Josh was undressing me!
Right? It was Josh? It had to be, because Vane was kissing me.
But how could I know for sure? Because now Invisible Man number one was freeing my breasts, shoving my bra out of the way, caressing them one after the other. Gently, he pushed me onto my back so I lay face up on the Invisa-Lover. He flicked my nipples, rolling them between his fingers, making me roll from side to side under his ministrations, making my insides clench in a most delightful way. This was new—Josh had never done it this way. I peered at the empty space where I thought Invisible Man number one might be, squinting, trying to cross my eyes, trying to see. It didn’t work.
Maybe it wasn’t Josh.
Was it Vane?
Invisible Man number two—Vane? Josh?—lay down alongside me and hooked his fingers under the band of my pants. He undid the button and unzipped the pants, tugging on them, as Invisible Man number one took my nipple in his mouth and began to suck.
I arched my back, moaning.
Who was sucking me? Who? Who was pulling down my pants, caressing every inch of my inner thighs? Who?
Who?
My breath came in gasps. Because man number two, whoever he was, was done with my pants, had tossed them into the corner followed by my panties, and was now gently but firmly nudging my legs apart and bending my knees. Oh! Oh! Now caressing my inner thighs. Now spreading me wide, revealing my most private parts. Cupping my pubic mound in his warm hand. And now…now…now…he was walking a finger around me, opening me, exploring my folds and inner places, all hot and wet and needful, with his curious fingers.
I remembered the black pouch. I remembered Vane’s fingers as he probed it.
It had to be Vane.
I writhed in pleasure, gulping for air.
The mouth left my breast. Kissed its way down my stomach. Sent tingles up my spine.
Man number one, right? Josh?
Fingers caressed me, filled me, massaged my insides—two, three, four fingers at once.
God!
It’s never felt like this!
I’m going to faint.
Then one of my lovers shifted his position, the mattress rising and falling with his weight. Had there been another silent signal between them? Because those beautiful fingers one by one abandoned my wet place, leaving me bereft. I held my breath, waiting, quivering, no invisible hands on me for the first time since we’d started playing. The mattress dipped between my legs. Someone—who?—touched me lightly on the knees, crouching in front of me. He scooted in closer, leaning in on top of me, stretching out his legs alongside my own. I felt his breaths on my chest, his weight along my length.
Who?
Someone was about to make love to me.
Who?
More movement.
Someone elsekneeled close to my stomach, almost sitting on me, leaning in on me, shifting his arms to make room for whoever was between my legs. Someone leaning over to kiss my belly and my ribs and my hips.
The same someone? A different someone?
How could only two men do so many things, be so many places at once? I badly, so badly it hurt, wanted to run my hands up and down their legs, their chests, their arms, their necks and heads…but I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I lay there, my hands clutching the Invisa-Lover. Oh the agony! Oh the bliss! My mouth puckered and my neck strained as I tried to kiss the shimmering shapes that floated over me and around me and beside me. My hips rose, trying to meet whoever was on top of me. Pretty soon, an invisible, unknown lover would be inside me.
Inside me!
Two shimmering beautiful men making love to me.
At the same time.
I almost came.
An invisible cock touched me between the legs, asking, pleading, begging, and I no longer cared whose it was. Gasping, I spread my naked legs even farther, thrusting my hips upward, opening for him. I didn’t care who the cock belonged to, I didn’t, I really didn’t. I was a new bride with only a single day as a married woman, had just promised before family and friends to honor and love my husband ’til death do us part, but fuck that, I wanted that big fat cock inside me and I wa
nted it now, and so I opened myself wider yet—an invitation, a demand.
Do it. Fuck me! I’m ready, whoever you are.
And so they did.
Things began to happen all at once. A kiss. A mouth on mine, a wet slurpy wonderful kiss. Another kiss, from another mouth.
And…now! Now! Now!
An invisible penis pressing its hot length slowly, so slowly into me. Hands reaching around me to clutch my butt, pulling me to him, pulling our writhing, hot bodies together, to him, to whoever he was, my unknown lover. I raised my hips to the man who was fucking me, shouting out loud as he moved within me, faster and faster and faster.
The bed, bumping against the wall.
A man, rocking and groaning on top of me, making love to me as no one ever had.
A second man, panting, grinding his cock on my hip, twining his legs with one of mine as he fucked my side.
Me, about to expire with the ecstasy of it.
A mouth on my breast. A hand caressing the other. Yet another hand, finding my clit with a finger and rubbing it in tight hard circles.
Oh, oh, oh!
Two men!
One man fucking me and another sucking my breast and diddling my clit. As long as one of them was Josh, I was happy.
And then I came.
A yowling filled the room as my entire body exploded into a thousand flaming shards. I gasped, arching my back, trying to get that penis farther into me. The most shattering orgasm of my entire life. I swear.
With a final lovely cadence of fluttering flames, it slowly came to an end. I lay trembling and winded on the bedspread, on the Invisa-Lover, an invisible man sprawled on top of me and another at my side, all of us spent, wasted, breathing heavily.
I couldn’t help myself. I reached up and gingerly touched the head resting on my shoulder. And felt a ponytail.
Vane!
I sucked in my breath. Clenched my nether lips around his cock. Pulled him farther into me. Vane.
Josh must have seen me feel Vane’s ponytail. He took my hand from Vane’s head, put my knuckles to his mouth, licking and slurping and sucking as he never had before. I watched, wide-eyed, as my fingers became wet with saliva from an invisible mouth. After a while Josh broke the silence. “I love you, Angie,” he said hoarsely, knowing that another man’s thick penis was still within me, still made my body hum with pleasure. “And I’ll be damned if I’ve ever wanted you as much as I do right now. Or loved you this much.”
Josh.
Another man was still inside me, still making me feel as if I might possibly have another orgasm, and Josh had never loved me more.
I was the luckiest woman in the world.
“I love you too,” I said, touching Josh’s invisible cheek with my wet hand, shuddering, as Vane nuzzled my neck and held me close. Vane moved his pelvis on mine, mashing my breasts with his chest, thrusting his penis inside me a few final sweet times.
I sighed.
Two lovers. Heaven. “Thank you for this, Josh. Thank you. And you too, Vane. It was…” I left the sentence unfinished.
Josh patted my hand. Kissed it once more. Took my little finger in his mouth. I pulled it out with a small, wet pop.
“Not now, babe,” I said, “Get ready. It’s your turn.”
Chapter Eleven
After dinner—which was, like all our meals, fabulous beyond description, so I won’t even try—Zettia gave everyone a stack of personalized calling cards. Who ever heard of calling cards, in this day and age? Who even knew what to do with them?
“To get to know one another better,” said our host, watching Zettia’s unhurried progress around the table. His voice sounded stronger, somehow. Not at all like the quavering voice of the ancient man who’d met us the night before. Perhaps Mr. Abiba hadn’t been feeling well. Maybe he was on the mend. Certainly he didn’t look to be one hundred and twenty years old anymore. More like ninety-nine. “You are delightful, my dears!” he said. “Every last one of you! So much to offer one another!” He looked long and lovingly at us, his guests, his gaze lingering on me, on Josh. “I do believe it would be heartbreaking, a shame of epic proportions, an unheralded tragedy, to let this opportunity pass you by. Do you not agree?”
I nodded along with everyone else. A tragedy? It surely would be!
What opportunity?
Josh shoved the detritus of our lavish dinner out of his way and picked up his calling cards, tugging at the shiny black ribbon that bound the stack. He slid out the top card. Rubbed his index finger over the raised writing. Turned it over. Sniffed it. Nodded. Passed it to me so I could take a look. Joshua Brandon Taylor, Guitarist, it read in an elegant script. I handed it back. He tapped it on the table top, grinning. Such a simple thing, to make him so happy. It was one of the things I loved most about Josh, that he was so easy to please.
What did my cards say? Did they say Angela Louise Penn Taylor, Artist? Or did they say something ridiculously old-fashioned, like Mrs. Joshua Taylor, Legally Wedded Wife?If they did, I would turn them in and demand something different. Maybe after my romp with the Invisa-Lover, the cards would say Ms. Angie Giggles Taylor, Orgasmic Phenomenon. I smiled to myself.
I peeked. Angela Taylor, Painter. I approved.
I held up a card to show Josh. Then I turned the card so Vane could see. He sat at the far end of the table between Geoffrey and Jonathan. Vane squinted at my card and gave me a thumbs-up, then went back to studying Geoffrey and Jonathan’s cards. He pointed to something on Jonathan’s card, and the three of them, their heads close together, laughed.
Vane. Invisible or not, I wanted him again. Come to think of it, after the shenanigans that had taken place during dinner, I wanted half the people in the room. Including Josh. Of course.
Of course including Josh.
Mr. Abiba cleared his throat. The chatting stopped. People set their cards down and turned toward him. Light from the candles on the table reflected off his smooth, bald head. He clasped his hands together. “Your first full day with me! A day to remember, I trust?”
Nods, smiles, small touches between people who had very much enjoyed their first full day at the inn. I kissed Josh for good measure. Yes. We would remember this day.
Mr. Abiba sipped from his sherry glass. “Your Lessons—they were pleasurable?”
Murmurs of agreement around the table.
“Your Guides were presentable? And well-behaved?”
Scattered titters.
I glanced at Vane, amused. Presentable, yes. Well-behaved…not so much. It all depended on how you defined the word. My mother, for example, would be appalled by his actions. She’d think Vane was positively delinquent. Well, maybe he was.
But if Vane was delinquent, what did that make me?
Mr. Abiba’s voice grew louder, shoving such thoughts from my mind. “And your Toolboxes? They were to your liking?”
I nodded vigorously. We allnodded vigorously.
“I so want to hear your experiences!”
No one volunteered to share.
“Come, come now!” Mr. Abiba said, his voice colored with something—amusement, perhaps. Or irritation? Impatience? I couldn’t tell. “We’re all adults here. Must I call on someone at random, like a schoolteacher?”
Still not a peep from his guests.
We held our collective breath as Mr. Abiba searched the table for someone to pounce on. He fixed his gaze on Geoffrey, then frowned slightly and moved on. He looked at Rhonda-Lynne the footsie-hater. She turned white. His eyes landed on me for a quick moment—I held my breath—then passed to the man sitting directly to my right, a fellow guest named Logan. Mr. Abiba’s glance flickered back and forth between me and Logan, back and forth. Not me, I pleaded silently. Please, not me. Choose Logan instead. Logan was probably chanting the same thing, about me. Mr. Abiba tapped his fingernails on the tabletop, ratta-tap-tap, considering his choice at length, enjoying the minor torture he was putting us through.
I was just getting to know Logan. He was from
San Francisco, a place I’d never been. Logan was quiet and soft-spoken, amusing in a dry, easy-going sort of way. The more Logan and I talked, the more I liked him. We’d even enjoyed a friendly bit of flirtation during dinner. More than a bit, actually. He’d held my hand all through the third main course, a delicious venison dish with tiny braised onions in the sauce. I’d managed to eat just fine with my left hand. I hadn’t dropped a single onion on my lap, not even when he’d leaned away from me, still clutching my hand, and started to make out with Nikki, his wife.
Mr. Abiba made up his mind. He clapped sharply. “Logan Millhouse!”
Good. Not me.
Logan sat up straighter. He folded his hands on the table and cleared his throat. “Yes sir?”
“Which of my delightful Tools did you and your lovely wife use? Do tell.”
Consumed with sudden burning curiosity, the rest of us stared at Logan and Nikki.
Yes—what Tool did they use?
Logan blushed furiously. He and his wife squirmed in their seats. Nikki let out a strangled laugh, ran her fingers through her short, spiky hair. She glanced at Logan, then spoke. “The Magnifier. We…uh, we used the Magnifier.”
“Indeed?” said Mr. Abiba, raising his eyebrows.
“Yeah, the Magnifier. And we liked it,” added Logan. “We liked it a lot.”
“Brilliant! How many times did you employ its charms?”
“Um…” said Logan, “I don’t remember.”
Nikki put her hand on Logan’s arm, and lowered her voice. “It was seven times, honey. We had to stop, remember? Dinner?”
Seven!
Josh and I shared a look. Seven? All the way until dinner?
“A veritable marathon, then!” said Mr. Abiba, his head tilted, his expression earnest, an excited flush rising on his cheeks. “And who was your Guide, my darlings?”
How odd that he would ask.
Mr. Abiba must know who their Guide was. He seemed to know everything that happened in this place. Why put poor Logan and Nikki in the hot seat? I studied Mr. Abiba. He looked very interested in their answer, as if his happiness, his health, even, depended on it. Maybe this exercise in baring our sexual lives was his way of getting us, his dear darling guests, to talk. Was this question-and-answer session his way of getting to know us better? Or was he doing it to help us get to know each other better, as he’d said?
